


They Say You Can't Put A Number On Love

by torakowalski



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: First Time, M/M, science is how Tony Stark makes friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Look,” Stark says. “I ran a simulation: attributes you have shown most interest in versus likelihood of success.  It turns out that there’s a sixty-five percent chance that your type is Director Fury.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Say You Can't Put A Number On Love

**Author's Note:**

> According to Matt Faction (who should know), it's Clint Barton's birthday today. And Clint Barton's birthday needs celebrating.

“But I don’t get it,” Stark complains, following Clint out of the elevator that he just followed him into.

“Dude,” Clint sighs, exasperated, “it’s real simple: I didn’t find him attractive.”

“Yeah,” Stark says slowly. “I still don’t get it. That guy was hot as hell and I’m only into the ladies.”

Clint stops, turning and raising his eyebrows until Stark makes a _fine_ face at him. 

“All right, so I’m _mostly_ only into the ladies. Satisfied? The point remains that you were just asked out by a kid who I’m ninety-nine percent sure was on the front cover of GQ last month… and you turned him down.”

“I did.” Clint gives up on shaking Stark off and heads toward the kitchen, opening the fridge door just to put it between them, not because he’s hungry.

Although, since he’s here, he is kind of hungry.

“Interesting.” Stark boosts himself up to sit on the breakfast bar, tap-tapping his fingertips against the marble. “Was it the stunning smile? The perfect hair? Maybe it was the millions of dollar he has in the bank.”

“We talking about whatshisname or you now, Stark?” Clint drops a tub of butter on the counter and flips open the breadbin. He’s kind of amazed that there’s actual bread in it; Steve and Thor eat a _lot_.

“Aw, shucks, you think my smile’s stunning?” Stark flutters his eyelashes. “No, we’re talking about your weird reluctance to go on a date. Make me a sandwich, while you’re there. Tuna fish, no mayo.”

“Yeah, no,” Clint says, but gets down two plates, anyway. He’s living in the guy’s house rent-free; it’s kind of instinctive to try and earn his keep.

“My theory,” Stark announces, like anyone’s actually asked him, “is that you’re already taken.”

“I’m not taken, Stark,” Clint says pretty patiently. It’s mostly even true. “When would I have the time?”

“ _Or_ ,” Stark continues, unperturbed, “you have a type and Mr Hollywood Smile didn’t fit it.”

Clint falls silent.

“Aha!” Stark crows, swinging forward so enthusiastically that he almost falls off the counter. “That’s the answer. Okay.”

“Okay?” Clint asks suspiciously. He wipes the butter knife on the side of the tub and frowns at Stark. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Stark says, flashing Clint a wide, suspiciously happy smile. “Now get back to feeding me, minion.”

***

Obviously, that’s _not_ it. Clint never really expected that it would be.

He should have just said yes to the fucking date. He could have turned down Mr Hollywood in private, later.

But he didn’t and now his life is full of Tony Stark nudging him at unexpected moments and hissing, “What about him?” or “Check her out.”

“Stark,” Clint whispers back, “that’s Thor’s mom.”

Stark shrugs, unrepentant. “Sure, but she’s hot, right?”

Frigga’s head turns slowly to look at them, one eyebrow arching neatly. Right, she can hear everything; she’s a freaking magical goddess.

“Sorry,” Clint mouths and elbows Stark hard in the stomach.

***

“Look,” Stark says, snagging Clint by the collar as soon as Clint gets home from a seriously long day of SHIELD-ing. He drags Clint over to one of his funky 3D computer displays and shifts some screens around. “I ran a simulation: attributes you have shown most interest in versus likelihood of success. It turns out that there’s a sixty-five percent chance that your type is Director Fury.”

Clint chokes. He’s not eating or drinking anything, so it must be his body going into self-defence mode.

“I mean,” Stark continues blithely, “there’s also a fifty-one percent chance that your ideal sexual partner is me, but I’m at least fifty-one percent everyone’s ideal sexual partner, so I discounted that.”

“Fuck.” Clint sits down on the nearest desk and clutches his face with his hands. He honestly isn’t sure what he’s done to deserve this but, whatever it is, he’s really fucking sorry. “Stop. Oh my god, stop.”

“Hmm?” Stark hums. “I’m sorry, are you not finding this helpful? Valuable time went into this, both mine and JARVIS’s.”

“No,” Clint agrees, “No, I’m not finding this helpful.” A tiny, terrible part of him wakes up and can’t resist asking, “Did you run a compatibility test between me and everyone we know?”

Stark shrugs. “JARVIS may have,” he says.

Clint has learned that an evasive Stark is a suspicious Stark. “Cool. Maybe I’ll ask him about that some time. Should be fun.” He’s also learned that the best way to find anything out is to pretend not to be taking it seriously.

“It’s not fun,” Stark says, eyes narrowed. “It’s science.” 

“Sexy science,” Clint says, flashing Stark a sharp grin.

“Oh laugh it up, Arrow Boy. Do you know who it matched you with first of all, before I recalibrated it due to obvious insanity?” Stark looks really, really smug now, but Clint’s heart’s beating kind of fast. 

“Natasha?” he asks, like he thinks that’s likely.

“Coulson!” Stark laughs, obviously expecting Clint to join in. Clint forces out some kind of chuckle although it probably sounds like wheezing. “Now Fury doesn’t seem so bad, right? At least he has the whole sexy, brooding ninja thing going on. All Coulson’s got is a strangely good taste in ties.”

Clint swallows down his instinctive reaction, which is to list off all the ways in which Phil is the hottest man Clint knows. That’s not the kind of thing he’s prepared to get into with Stark. “Good thing you recalibrated, then.”

“Right.” Stark whizzes the screen he’s looking at over to Clint. “Here. Peruse at your leisure. Pick yourself the perfect mate. If this goes well, I might introduce Stark Singles: the thinking agent’s answer to match.com. What do you think?”

“I think you need help,” Clint tells him seriously. 

Stark pats him on the back and leaves the room, whistling. Clint watches him go then makes sure to click on several random profiles before going to Phil’s. He knows that Stark will check up on his browsing history.

“Agent Barton,” JARVIS says politely. “May I enquire whether the calibration was necessary?”

Clint hesitates, but Stark’s never pretended to be JARVIS, even though he totally should, since they all tell JARVIS far too much. “Yeah, not so much,” he says and touches the little button at the top of Phil’s profile which says _compatibility: 49% (previous score 87%)._

***

“Is it something really specific?” Stark asks, because he’s apparently incapable of letting anything go. “Like, red eyes or cat ears or something?”

Clint chokes on his coffee. “Cat ears?”

“Hey.” Stark spreads his hands in a _don’t blame me_ gesture. “That’s a thing. I saw it on the internet. I can get JARVIS to bring up – ”

“I beg you not to,” Phil interrupts, setting a stack of papers on the table between Clint and Stark.

“Coulson.” Stark’s creepy laser focused eyes swivel to stare at Phil.

“Stark,” Phil agrees. He starts handing out dockets.

“You’ve known Barton, the longest, right?” Stark continues, completely ignoring the fact that they’re meant to be working. To be fair, Clint ignores that pretty often too, but annoying Phil is only fun when _he’s_ the one doing it.

“No, he’s not secretly an elf,” Phil says, tone bland and longsuffering at the same time.

“Eh, that was last week’s theory. No, today, I want to talk dating.” Stark’s eyes gleam, which is good, because it means that he misses Phil’s tiny flinch.

Clint doesn’t.

Phil very pointedly sets a stack of notes at Stark’s elbow. “I’m sorry, Mr Stark, I think you must have mistaken this for the water cooler, when in fact it’s a SHIELD boardroom.”

Stark stares at the notes for a second then very deliberately leans an elbow on them. “C’mon, Agent, gossip a little. It’s not like you’re going to start your meeting until Captain Amazing shows up, anyway.”

“I honestly have no knowledge of, nor interest in, the people Agent Barton choses to date,” Phil says flatly. If Clint didn’t know (hope) that that was bullshit, he might believe him.

Stark makes a rude noise. “Well, you’re no fucking help.” He turns his attention back to Clint. Over Stark’s head, Clint sees Phil make a _what the fuck_ face at him and tries not to laugh. “Okay, so there’s Agent Romanoff, right?”

“Not any more,” Clint says, trying to sound bored when mostly he’s embarrassed. He doesn’t need Phil listening to this. “So, what?”

“So, maybe your type is scary, hot and Russian.”

“Badass,” Clint allows, “not scary.”

“And not necessarily Russian?” Stark presses.

Clint lets his eyes flick to Phil very, very briefly. “Not necessarily Russian,” he agrees.

“What about redheads…” Stark is just starting to say when the door opens and Steve and Bruce finally come in. 

Looks like there is a merciful god, after all.

“Too late,” Clint says. “Hey, Coulson, want to start the briefing?” 

“Desperately,” Phil says and clicks his laser pointer on with way more force than normal.

***

“What was that about, earlier?” Phil asks much later, after the mission. Clint is sitting on the floor of Phil’s office, trying to finish his paperwork, and they haven’t spoken for a while.

“With the radioactive squirrels?” Clint asks. “Fuck if I know.”

Phil huffs out a laugh but shakes his head. “No, although that was weird. I meant why was Stark asking all those questions about your dating habits? Does Pepper need to be worried?”

Clint takes a second to think about him and Stark together then wrinkles his nose. “Ew, sir,” he complains, “now I need to bleach my brain. No, he’s just… it’s really dumb.”

“What is?” Phil closes the lid on his computer and gives Clint all his attention. Either he’s finished writing his report already or typing ‘radioactive squirrels’ for the fifteenth time has just driven him to despair.

Fuck. Now Clint’s going to have to explain. “No, really, it’s _totally_ dumb. I just got kind of hit on a little at that function Stark Industries held last week? And I turned the dude down, so Stark’s been on at me ever since to find out why.”

“Ah.” Phil nods slowly. “That makes sense.”

“Yeah.” Clint holds his breath and can’t decide if he wants Phil to push this or not. They’ve both done really well for years and years at pretending there’s nothing between them. Does Clint want _Tony Stark_ to be the thing that gives them that final kick in the pants?

Phil doesn’t push. Instead, he stands up and stretches his back until it cracks. “Dinner?” he asks.

Clint scrambles to his feet, leaving his paperwork where it is. The janitors don’t disturb Phil’s stuff; Clint can come back and finish it in the morning. “Burgers?”

“I have steaks in my fridge,” Phil offers, which is too tempting an offer to turn down. Not that Clint would ever turn down an invitation to come home with Phil. He loves seeing Phil in his natural habitat. Sometimes he even wears jeans.

“Got yourself a date, sir,” he says and smiles (maybe sort of smugly) when Phil’s cheeks flush.

***

“So ‘secretly badass’,” Phil says and waits.

Clint is so full of good food that it takes him a second to work out what Phil’s quoting. Then he groans. “Oh my god, you can’t start this too,” he complains. “Stark is literally driving me to drink.” He waves his bottle of beer at Phil to prove his point.

“I’m not starting anything, and that’s your first beer,” Phil tells him.

“Yeah, well.” Clint shrugs. “I can’t get Stark to stop, so you’re not allowed to start.”

Phil bends forward and nudges the record player, starting a new tune. When he leans back, his shoulder is closer to Clint’s. “Do you know how to get Stark to stop?” he asks.

Suddenly, the label on Clint’s beer bottle is super interesting. “Sure. Tell him what he wants to hear,” he says, like it would be no big deal.

Phil nudges Clint’s knee with his own. “Tell me, instead.”

“Ugh.” Clint focuses on a really stubborn, sticky corner of the label. “Come on, sir, don’t be an asshole.”

“I’m not.” Phil puts his hand over Clint’s, taking the bottle away, so Clint has to look at him. “ _Clint_. Tell me.”

Clint looks. Phil’s really close and his expression is really soft and, fuck, but Clint loves his eyes. “Why now?” he asks, studying the threads of silver at Phil’s temples, the fine lines around his eyes.

It’s Phil’s turn to look embarrassed, but he’s Phil so it’s not _very_. “I don’t like the idea of someone else asking you out,” he says. “Stark sounded like he was getting ready to set you up. That’s never happened before.”

Clint swallows. Phil’s right, Clint’s been stupidly, embarrassingly faithful to this potential thing between them, ever since he realised it might not be one-sided. He’s just kind of uncomfortable that Phil noticed.

“You know what my type is,” he says. He means it to come out firmly, he doesn’t mean to sound so hoarse and lost.

Phil’s hand slides up the back of Clint’s, curling around his wrist. “Humour me.”

Clint opens his mouth, but he can’t say it. It sticks in his throat. Because sure, yeah, he could say that he likes them badass and older and dependable, but that’s not all it is. The first time he met Phil, he knew he could be in trouble, and Phil had been much younger and slightly less badass back then.

He’s always been the most dependable thing in Clint’s life.

“It’s,” Clint tries then gives up, shaking his head.

Phil doesn’t say anything, just kisses him.

It takes Clint by surprise, somehow, even though God knows it shouldn’t. But Phil’s kisses are slow and patient, barely there but still unmistakably promising, while he waits for Clint to catch up.

Clint catches up pretty damn quick.

***

For all that he talks a good game, Clint doesn’t usually go straight to bed with someone after the first kiss. Phil is basically all his exceptions wrapped up in a suit and a smirk.

“We can stop,” Phil says, licking Clint’s jaw then biting it. “If I’m rushing you, we can stop.”

“Do I look rushed?” Clint demands, turning in for another kiss.

Phil, damn him, actually pulls back to check. He quirks an eyebrow. “Honestly? Yes.” 

Clint looks down at himself - shirt open and shoved up under his armpits, pants undone, one sock still on - and snorts. “This is me at my most prepared, Coulson.” He grabs hold of Phil’s open collar and pulls him down. Phil’s pants are open too and their dicks line up really, really nicely. “What are you going to do about it?”

Phil closes his eyes, bowing his head against Clint’s collarbone like he’s finding this all a lot to take in too. 

Clint reaches up, rubbing his thumb over the corner of Phil’s eye, where the fine lines crinkle up into a tiny concertina when he smiles. 

“Looks like you are my type,” he says, grinning when Phil lifts his head and rolls his eyes.

“I should hope so,” Phil says, but his expression goes soft.

Clint waits. Phil doesn’t say anything else.

“Hey,” Clint says and pinches his nipple hard.

Phil laughs, leaning in. “You’re my type too,” he says and and kisses Clint slowly.

***

Stark’s sitting at the breakfast bar when Clint gets home the next morning. His gaze zooms in on the hickey on Clint’s jaw that Clint really isn’t trying to hide and he makes a wordless question noise.

“Took you up on your advice,” Clint says, sauntering (he’s so well fucked; he can saunter like a pro) over to the coffee machine.

“You hooked up with someone. Who did you hook up with?” Stark demands. He leans forward on his elbows and squints at Clint.

Clint looks back at him levelly. “The person your algorithm said I was most compatible with.”

Stark turns kind of blue. It’s fascinating. “Please,” he wheezes, “please tell me you didn’t fuck Fury last night.”

It’s really, really hard not to laugh. Everything’s funny to Clint today, because his world is an awesome place, but this is especially amazing. 

He shrugs. “It was your idea.”

Very slowly, very carefully, Stark puts his head down on the table and moans. “I’m swearing off math,” he says. “JARVIS, make a note. No more math. No more numbers.”

“No more matchmaking?” Clint asks. While Stark’s distracted being a diva, he snaps a picture on his cell and sends it to Phil.

“No more matchmaking,” Stark agrees with a shudder.

“Awesome.” Clint pats him on the back and slinks out of the room, armed with coffee this time. Half way up to his room, his phone chimes.

 _You’re evil_ , Phil’s written.

 _Part of my charm_ , Clint sends back. His smile is making his cheeks hurt. He hates it and doesn’t hate it all at once. 

Phil doesn’t waste any time replying. _Dinner tonight?_

Rather than text back, Clint hits the call button. It’s been like an hour since he last spoke to Phil. That’s not clingy.

“Long as you don’t mind me pretending to Stark that I’m out with Fury,” Clint says as soon as Phil answers.

There’s a tiny pause. “I can cope with that,” Phil says. Then, “Can I be there when Fury finds out?”

Clint laughs out loud. “Sure thing, sir,” he says. He leans against the wall, not saying anything. Then he realises that he’s _listening to Phil breathe_ and has to stop that immediately. “Hey, you got lunch plans yet? I could swing by your office.”

“For food or a quickie?” Phil asks, like either is acceptable, he just needs clarification for his day planner.

“Both?” Clint tries.

“Twelve thirty,” Phil says smartly. “Don’t be late.”

“No, sir,” Clint promises and just keeps grinning like an idiot even when he’s only grinning at the dial tone.

Torturing Stark is great fun, obviously, but at some point, Clint’s going to send the guy the largest fruit basket he can find.

/End


End file.
